Dentist
by gemmawolf
Summary: You know what they say about an Englishman's teeth. America decides that England needs an appointment, much to the Brit's panic. England's POV, some swearing but nothing too bad.


**What's this? Two publishings within twenty-four hours? Impossible!**

* * *

Damn America with his snow-white, perfectly-aligned, gapless set of teeth!

I don't know how he does it; I mean, when I raised him I always made sure he brushed his teeth and didn't have too much sugar, but he never wore braces and he's been in quite a few fights over the decades, so how come his mouth has to be so bloody perfect and beautiful?

I'm not so lucky. You're probably well aware of the stereotype that I have 'crooked teeth'. Well not all of us are blessed with good looks (but at least I have a brain, which is more than can be said for that idiot). I try to take care of my mouth – I really do – but these last few years I've been cursed with fillings.

It's probably because of my sweet tooth: scones, cakes and chocolate from my country, and products from other nations such as Germany's Haribo and America's Coca Cola. Him _again_! He eats so much more sugar than I do; it's crammed into fast food and fizzy pop which he eats and drinks by the gallon, and he _still_ doesn't need any dental work!

How unfair is that? At least I _attempt_ to eat healthily, and I floss often enough, and yet I'm still the one who is nagged by the dentist every six months.

The other day, we were sitting in a cafe after a meeting, and America was staring at me through his glasses. (I suppose I take better care of my eyes than he does.) It got really irritating after a while; it's so rude, a breach of privacy. I was nibbling on a scone and with him keeping his eyes on me the whole time it was hard to conceal my teeth from his view.

But apparently, his eyesight isn't so poor that he didn't notice.

"Dude," he said, in that _ridiculous_ uncultured accent of his, "when was the last time you saw a dentist."

"Five months ago, why?"

"_Seriously_? I see mine every two months, tops!"

"Pipe down, I've got an appointment booked for a few weeks from now."

"Nu-uh, you need to have someone check it out. Do they do braces for adults? Because you need one." I glared at him silently, deciding how to kill him without drawing attention. "Come on; let's go now!"

I felt instantly sick to the stomach. "N-now?"

He beamed at me, with that handsome mouth of his. "Yeah, right now! They won't care so long as I pay them enough."

And so, I was dragged out of the cafe and down the high street, pulling useless against his iron grip on my arm. You see, I hate dentists. With a passion. Don't get me wrong, the fellow who checks me up in London is a lovely chap, with a wife and children and an old dog that is going deaf, but I despise what they do. I can handle needles well enough – when you've fought through wars you tend to develop a sense of pain relativity – but if you put one in my mouth I'll have your hand off.

Drills as well: the noise, the sensation, it's simply horrid! Why, why, _why_ would I ever want someone boring into my tooth like a burrowing worm? And what if they slip, and catch my cheek or tongue? I hate how they prod and poke and scrape and squeeze. Remember that breach of privacy I was talking about? This is worse.

"America, no," I yelped, seeing the door only metres away. "I can't! Don't make me go in there, please!"

The ignorant git didn't notice my panicking, and even went so far as to laugh! "Come on, England, the sooner it's over the sooner you can have a dazzling awesome smile like me!"

The door opened with the tinkling of a bell, and the receptionist looked up. I don't blame her for looking surprised – two men, one grinning like a mad man and the other attempting to wriggle free, had just walked into the surgery dressed in World War Two uniforms. I kept quiet, but still tried to twist my arm out of America's grasp.

"Hey there, could you squeeze Artie here in for an appointment? He might need some fillings and stuff, but I'm no expert." He grinned, showing off his smile. I hate him sometimes.

After tapping about on the keyboard for a moment, the girl nodded. "We can fit you in soon; it's a ten minute wait. How would you like to pay?"

America handed her more money than needed – pound sterling too; he seemed very organised for once – and we sat alone in the waiting room. I couldn't keep still; my heart was pounding. I tried reasoning with the oaf again, but not even the promise of McDonalds would sway him. He claimed it was for my own good. Poppycock! I was going to have a heart attack before I even stepped foot in the room!

It took me a few seconds to respond when 'Arthur Kirkland' was called; that was me. I've never quite got the hang of my human name being used, but then again I can't exactly call myself 'Mr U. Kingdom'. I shot a glance to America – now 'Alfred' – with pleading in my eyes. For once he read my expression, but not in the way I had hoped.

"Sure I can come in with you, Artie!"

Bloody idiot! I hate him!

He practically shoved me into the clinical-white surgery, and I was asked to sit. Dentist chairs are also on my list of things I detest; they're not comfy at all, and the squeaky plastic makes me slip down constantly. This particular room had a poster of a tropical island on the ceiling in the vain hope that it could calm me down. No chance. And that flaming light shining in your face! How come the dentist gets to wear sunglasses (or something close to them) and I don't? Next my optician will be telling me off.

For the first few minutes of prodding I sat there, my stomach clenched into an impossibly tight not and my fingers digging into the stingy foam of the seat's arms. Alarm bells were ringing in my head, two weeks earlier than I expected. I wasn't prepared for this, I wasn't mentally ready!

In all honesty... I was scared.

So it didn't take much longer for me to black out completely.

* * *

When I woke up, I was back in the waiting room. My mouth felt as though it was stuffed with cotton – which is because it was. The taste was horrid; metallic and soapy mixed together, and kind of sweet but in the disgusting way. I blinked hard and found America was staring at me again.

"Woh?" I asked, only to find that my mouth was numb all over. At least I hadn't been conscious for whatever injections I had endured.

"It couldn't have been that bad, could it?" he asked, somehow understanding me. That's one thing that he is good at, I suppose.

I shrugged, rubbing my face tenderly. I had drooled a bit while I was out. "Haw maneh?"

I punched him in the arm when he snorted in laughter; then I kept hitting him, and hitting him, despite feeling drowsy from sleep and drugs. "Ow! Cut it out! I'm sorry! You've got three fillings, and he wants to send you to an orthodontist to get your teeth straightened out."

With a groan, I buried my head in my hands. Why? Why I can't I suffer in silence? "You gih! Don 'ou dare do tha' to me ageh!" It's not like I can help what my people do to me; if they don't take care of themselves, then _I _take the damage. No matter how much I do or what pain I go through to set things straight – literally in this case – it will just be a vicious loop until my citizens change their habits.

I flinched when I felt arms go around me, but I relaxed into the hug. Sometimes all I need is someone to reassure me, to know that they care. "I'm sorry. It's just tough love," he whispered, but there was no malice in it. I raised him with that mindset, that there are times when you have to hurt someone you love before you can make them better.


End file.
